Commuting: Problem Solving Strategies that Really Work

Two friends meet and discuss weekday woes.

Friend One: I was pleased to hear you had resumed dating. It’s about time.

Friend Two: After several months and thousands of dollars of therapy related expenses, I finally decided to stick my toe in the pond again.

Friend One: And how is it going?

Friend Two: Much the same as always. The masculine side of the dating pool remains quite shallow and is almost exclusively populated by clods, deviants, sadists, and used car salesmen. I have no desire to “check under the hood” on a first date, nor have phone sex with someone whose communication skills are limited to grunts, squeals and flatulence. 

I do not want to see someone’s "genuine" Picasso hanging on his bedroom wall that is authenticated because, “I checked and the signature is spelled correctly.”

Friend One: But have you managed to have any successful dates?

Friend Two: Successful? No. Satisfying- eventually One.

Friend One: Ah... that must have been Mr. Light Bulb.

Friend Two: Yes. I don’t even know why I opened the door when he knocked. My Xanax must not have kicked in yet. He was from the local power company offering free energy saving light bulbs, power strips, low flow shower heads and other grant provided grab bag items guaranteed to reduce energy consumption costs.

Friend One: And how did that lead to a date?

Friend Two: He seemed nice at the time. Now I realize the prongs at the end of his cord were pretty corroded. Of course he had my contact information and called the next day.  On a whim I said yes, why not? He wanted to come to my place “and take it from there.”

I said I would meet him at a public location.

Friend One: And…

Friend Two: I repacked my Ready Bag. I wanted to make sure I had my updated “Carry, Concealed” permit and spare ammo in it. I needed to clean my Glock anyhow. I added new pepper spray and charged the Tazer.

Friend One: You always are the most prepared woman I know. The penultimate Girl Scout.

Friend Two: Well, it was a colossal waste of two hours. At first all he talked about was his ex girlfriend. He said it took him reading 25 self-help books to get over her. I believe he needs to purchase books 26, 27, and 28.  

Finally I turned the conversation to work. That unleashed a soliloquy on the woes of commuting.  The usual: road rage, wasted time, nothing stimulating, etc. I suggested he purchase the complete CD set:  Rosetta Stone-  Languages of the Prehensile Primates.

Friend One: How did you explain that?

Friend Two: I told him it was an archipelago in the South China Sea.  He profusely thanked me for the wonderful idea. As I walked away he gave me a gift bag to open when I got home. He said it was something to keep me happy until our next date.

Friend One: Did you open it? What was in it?

Friend Two: Vibrating panties, Ben Wa balls and butt plugs. I tossed them into the box with all the others.

Friend One: Yes, I have a similar large collection that has been gifted to me also. Goodwill won’t take them and I really would not know how to note them as a line item tax deduction anyhow.

Friend Two: So I called Pussy’s Palace and she couriered over the latest version of the Auto-Suck after Anushka modified a couple of the settings. I added a reverse pronged penis ring and couriered the package to Mr. Light Bulb with a profuse thank you and this little something to take the edge off his commuting woes.

Friend One: And then you called Mavis at OnStar?

Friend Two: You know it. She made all the arrangements for his enhanced commuting experience the next day. She even modified the camera for a wide angle video capture of the driver’s seat area.

Friend One: And I’m sure Anushka outdid herself again.

Friend Two: Yes. She tweaked the settings so it functioned more like those Chinese finger traps- the harder you pull to take them off, the tighter the suction becomes.  She also bypassed the kill switch and added a dye pack.

Friend One: How long before he called OnStar?

Friend Two: About seven minutes. I do respect his perseverance.

Friend One: So where did she send him?

Friend Two: She took over auto control and motored him to Catholic Women’s Hospital. The staff there is 98% female and all the ER techs are nuns. I am sure they took good care of him.

Friend One: What about the video?

Friend Two: Mavis is going to text me. **Twing** Oh there she is now. She just uploaded it to YouTube. 20,000 hits in the first minute. Where’s your iPad??

Spring Trends

Two friends meet and discuss recent news in the business world.

Friend One: Have you been shopping for the new spring fashions?

Friend Two: I have looked. They’re all hideous versions of the unflattering styles designers tried to foist upon us this past winter.

Friend One: Handkerchief hems were bad enough. They make everybody’s thighs look like basketballs the way the fabric bounces around with every step.

Friend Two: Now we have that high-low look with the shorter hem in the front and the longer hem in the back. No woman looks good in them unless she is over six feet tall.

Friend One: Every other woman looks like a mutant Munchkin or a leprechaun whose growth hormone injections failed halfway through treatment.

Friend Two: The designs are all boxy and military inspired with large buttons, useless zippers and epaulets.

Friend One: Who designed them- Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un?

Friend Two: Yes. It’s a new line: Gulag Fashions.

Friend One: Well, what else should one expect from someone who is friends with Dennis Rodman? I believe the line from Men in Black is right- he is from another planet.

Friend Two: The winter hues of mud puddle brown, slush gray, and baby diarrhea mustard yellow were bad enough.

Friend One: Now we are supposed to don harvest gold and aqua plaid. We’ll all look like a 1950’s kitchen.

Friend Two: And the patterns- giant versions of 1960’s sea shell wallpaper and hippie flower child psychedelic flowers.

Friend One: I have fond memories of those days. Not the clothing, just the free love.

Friend Two: Speaking of free love, have things settled down yet over at Mama Network?

Friend One: Pretty much. I can say it was a successful test of the new instant shade windows that were installed in the cafeteria during the building remodel.

Friend Two: The ones that turn instantly from regular glass to any degree of shade with a remote signal?

Friend One: Yup. Apparently Khorkina and the Little Man didn’t realize they were operational. And one must stay current with the latest technological innovations, especially when having a wee hours intimate liaison between the vending machines.

Friend Two: What was she doing there so late, anyhow?

Friend One: You know Mama insists all the wannabe models she signs with Mama Agency serve an internship at the network, so they can learn about the print and runway industry from behind the camera, not just in front of it. Khorkina was just watching some video and stills during less frenetic hours.

Friend Two: So the Little Man convinced her that nobody would ever find out about a quickie, especially if they hid in the cafeteria? He must have been very persuasive despite their differences. After all, he is barely five feet tall. She is 6’5”.  She is 22 and he is 56 and married. 

Friend One: Apparently he didn’t think there were operational cameras in the cafeteria at night or the ones in the parking lot could scan and zone in focus directly on the building.

Friend Two: She may be young but she isn’t that naïve. I heard his wife was in charge of security on her latest photo shoot. They must have consulted about logistics. Hasn’t he been suspected of philandering before?

Friend One: I’m sure they had some girl talk sessions about Little Man’s assets and skills.  Since he is so short, all he did at first was flip her high-low hem over his head. Then as business progressed, he spun her around against the window, climbed up on a cafeteria chair and, well, those useless zippers and buttons didn’t seem to be so useless after all.

Friend Two: So what about the windows? What really happened?

Friend One: I guess he didn’t know the Missus was overseeing Security Central for a few hours since her promotion. With one click, the darkened windows cleared and the audio/video feed pre-empted all the ads and propaganda on the Jumbotrons in Times Square, Hong Kong, Toronto, Sydney, and Beijing. Referees even called an official Time Out at the World Cup game in Rio.

Friend Two: And now?

Friend One: Khorkina is thrilled. Her career has taken off. She has worldwide Fortune 100 Company modeling requests that will keep her booked daily for the next three years at least. And Mama Agency gets a healthy percentage of her newly inflated fees. Plus a commission on the YouTube ad traffic. There were 12 million hits in the first 24 hours alone.  

Friend Two: How about the Little Man?

Friend One: Well, the farm in the Nevada desert could use some help. Apparently Ex Mr. Dog Food is actually showing some beginning signs of a work ethic (http://barb-says.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-xx-business-factor.html).

Friend Two: OOH Rah!

Let’s all Tweet like the birdies do…

A woman “of a certain age” is enjoying a solo meal while working on her tablet. Suddenly a large cowboy hat sails onto her table, sending her organized paperwork flying. Before she can react a booming voice assaults her:

Man with Cowboy Hat: Louise!

Woman: Certainly not. Please remove that odious head gear from my table and depart before I call security.

MWCH: Restaurants don’t have security guards. Sacha? Babette? Shawneequa? I know you.

Woman: You must not have dined recently in the Middle East. Or parts of New Jersey. I assure you we have never met. I would remember a gentleman so devoid of common sense and manners. I am busy and don’t want to talk to you.

MWCH: Caroline? Montana? Veronica? I am so bad with names.

Woman: Among other skills. And now I must re-order my tea since you managed to spill the dregs. Go away.

MWCH: My apologies. I was overtaken and I behaved badly. Susan? Lulu? Gabalina?

Woman: That is the only true thing you’ve said, the bad behavior part. Now take your inadequately phrased apology and leave. No- don’t sit down. I don’t want to speak another word to you.

MWCH: Then don’t. I’ll talk. Your name will come to me in a minute and then everything will fall into place. I think better while sitting. Lara? Q’iana? Angel?

Woman: This is most certainly the worst pick- up attempt in history. Men your age troll the Blonde Bimbo set.

MWCH: They don’t frequent fine dining establishments and drink Tea with Honey. Blonde Bimbo Babes hold no interest for me. I just want to remember the name of the beautiful woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. Mellisande? Orly? Tatiana?

Woman:  No, No, and NO. Also not Monique, T’Pring, or Honeysuckle. 20 Questions is over. I wish you luck in your search. Goodbye.

MWCH: Those were my next guesses. Now I’ll need another minute to think. Um…

Woman: I suspect the process will take much longer.

MWCH: I’ve got it- Khorkina? Nubia? Gert?

Woman: (Gathering paperwork and stowing it into carryall): Since you won’t leave or stop talking, I’ll excuse myself. When I return to settle my check, I expect it to be to a companionless table. (She heads to Ladies Room.)

A few minutes later:

Woman: You’re still here. Did you attend special classes in school? Your mental processing speed is obviously diminished. You know, early intervention is Best Practice, but therapy at any age can yield positive outcomes.

MWCH:  Did it work?  And, no, I was homeschooled. Maeve? Gabrielle? Carlotta?

Woman: Well, at least that avoids an additional black mark on the public education tally sheet. And yes, all the facilities in the Ladies Room function adequately in case you’re keeping tabs.

MWCH: No, not the toilet or sink. I was referring to the facial recognition software you ran my photo through. The one you tried to take without my knowledge. Rose? Sable? Margaret?

Woman:  I may have to re-evaluate my initial impression of you. You’re the only man who, well, never mind. You are certainly persistent and talkative, two qualities I had hoped to avoid in other humans this afternoon.

MWCH: It won’t work, you know- the software. I’m off the grid. Bambi? Grace? Magdaline?

Woman: You have no cyber presence. No hits whatsoever.

MWVH: Not everybody leaves a footprint or breadcrumb trail. Josepha? Princess?  Delilah?

Woman: Those few people are extremely wealthy or connected in ways I don’t want to think about.

MWCH: Since you believe I’m one of them, maybe you’re one of them, too. Sheba? Jezebel? Dinah?

Woman: Perhaps you really have no identity, like Will Smith in Men in Black. His was erased and he became a letter: J. Then there is Get Smart’s Agent 99.   Or Secret Agent Man- “We’re giving you a number and taking away your name.”  I’ll just call you Zero. It perfectly fits the amount of time I want to spend with you.

MWCH: So harsh from my future bride. I’ll work to hone my PR skills. And if you really don’t want to talk, we can go to a movie. That will guarantee at least 112 minutes of my silence. And time for my inadequate brain processes to catch up.  Megan? Charlotte? Nancy?

Woman: I’ll accept but only for the anticipated peace and quiet. The theater is just across the way. But before we leave, you must sign this disclaimer. Standard social interaction procedure I’ve had to resort to, which I am sure you will respect.

MWCH: I happily accept your terms and agreement. Debbie? Pocahontas? Eve? (He scribbles on paper) Here- take my card in case we become separated in the crowd.

Woman: It’s 3 PM. There will be seven people in line for 13 movies. Plus, that hat could be seen from the International Space Station. Fret not. You signed this disclaimer with the numeral zero. And whose business card has only a zip code?

MWCH: NASA assured me my hat was footprint proof, plus you’re the one who assigned me the name. That’s the best I can do considering my educational deficits. The zip code is also my Twitter handle.  Portia? AaEva? Violet?

Woman: How many Twitter followers do you have? I can’t believe you have a plethora of fans hanging on your every tweet.

MWCH: It’s very private- you’re the only follower. Bella? Cleopatra? Elaine?

Two and a half hours later:

Woman: Well, thank you for keeping your promise of 112 minutes of silence. You even exceeded the goal by 14%. A man who keeps his word is a rare commodity.

MWCH: You have no idea. I took a nap, ergo the silence. Maxine? Noel? April? May I take you to dinner?

Woman: I cannot tonight meet the anticipated conversation mandates. I really need a few hours of quiet work time. Some people do work, you realize, not just spend afternoons pursuing their social life.

MWCH: Understood. You know how to contact me. Anytime. (He tips cowboy hat and strolls off into the evening.)

3 AM:

MWCH receives Tweet: “Zero- I’m hungry.”

3:02 AM:

Woman receives Tweet: “Ride is outside. Pack toothbrush. Mary? Olivia? Aurora?”